His Temporary Live-in Wife. Susan Crosby

him a moment for a longer glimpse of her.

      Dylan’s comment about her not looking as if she missed meals wasn’t accurate. She was just curvy, very curvy, top and bottom, but with a small waist, proportionately. A perfect hourglass. She wore a low-cut T-shirt with the word “Score” blazoned across it, and skin-tight jeans. Too many questions came to mind. He was trying not to jump to conclusions as much as he had in the past.

      “Where were you tonight?” he asked.

      “I wait tables at a sports bar on Friday and Saturday nights.” She faced him. “I didn’t know the window lock was broken until today when the window washer pointed it out. As you’ll see for yourself, it’s not immediately evident. I made arrangements for it to be repaired, but the guy couldn’t come until tomorrow. Today.”

      “You should’ve offered a bonus to come today. If you’d called me about it, I would’ve told you to do that. You should know that about me by now.”

      “Apparently money solves all your problems,” she murmured.

      Annoyed at her tone, he came up beside her so that Dylan wouldn’t overhear any more of their conversation. “Most of the time, yes. You didn’t turn down the extra pay I offered.”

      “True.” After a minute, she said, “What are you going to do about him?”

      “I haven’t decided, but he needs to learn there are consequences for his actions.”

      Dylan stepped into the room then. He swallowed as he eyed the sandwiches. He also looked ready to take flight.

      “I know all about consequences,” Dylan said, looking as if the world was one big heavy weight on his shoulders.

      Eric saw Marcy become a puddle of sympathy. He figured the kid had learned survival techniques, one of them being to figure out who might be the softest touch. He would probably zero in on Marcy now, because she’d played her hand already. He knew she cared about what happened to him.

      “What would you like to drink?” she asked.

      “Milk. If you’ve got it.”

      “I think by now you know what she’s got,” Eric said. “You’re not eating?” he asked Marcy as she passed their plates to them.

      “I ate at work.”

      His long day of driving, followed by all he’d been met with here, combined to deliver him a one-two punch of exhaustion. He wasn’t even hungry anymore. He just needed sleep. And no problems to deal with for at least ten hours.

      So much for starting fresh somewhere else. Welcome to California, indeed.

      “You can sleep in the living room,” he said to Dylan, deciding that if he hadn’t taken anything other than food the last five days, he wasn’t likely to do so now. “I expect you to be here when I get up in the morning, even if that’s not until noon.”

      Dylan said nothing. He just ate, taking big bites, devouring the sandwich.

      Eric glanced at Marcy when Dylan refused to answer.

      “What? You plan on ordering me, too?” she asked, challenge and humor in her eyes.

      “Where have you been sleeping?”

      “On a cot in your bedroom. Your furniture was set up today, and your bed is made, by the way. I’ll just move into one of the spare bedrooms for the night. I’m sure we’ll have business to discuss in the morning. Good night.”

      She was a lot more lively in person than on the phone, and she wasn’t acting much like an employee. Not that he minded, except that his perceptions of her were all wrong, and that usually wasn’t the case.

      He watched Dylan eat. Eric had seen what could happen to teenagers on the streets of New York. Things might not be as dire in the university town of Davis, but everyone deserved better than being reduced to scrounge for food and shelter. And everyone he knew who’d gotten involved with a homeless person had gotten bitten in some way.

      He wanted to trust his instincts about the kid, but he knew he should keep his guard up. “Want another sandwich?” he asked.

      “She made chocolate-chip cookies today, but I’m guessing they’re for you,” Dylan said, pointing to a plastic container on the counter.

      Eric leaned back in his chair, grabbed it and set it in front of the boy. Dylan didn’t hesitate. He yanked the top off and pulled out a handful. Eric went to the refrigerator to get the milk again, deciding to give up asking questions. The kid would talk when he was ready.

      After a few minutes Marcy materialized in the doorway. “I made up a bed for Dylan on the sofa,” she said, then disappeared as quickly and quietly as she’d come.

      They rinsed their plates in the kitchen sink then walked into the living room. The sofa looked welcoming. Because it was a normal hot August night, she hadn’t added a blanket, only sheets, but she’d turned down the top sheet invitingly and put a chocolate mint on his pillow.

      Eric smiled at that. She may not trust Dylan being there, and she may even harbor resentment for his sneaking into the house under her watch, but she still recognized he could use a little comfort.

      “Are you gonna call the cops?” Dylan asked, scuffing his toe against the hardwood floor.

      He was too tired to deal with it. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He dragged his hands down his face.

      Dylan sprang into action, making a quick side step around Eric, running to the door. He was already to the front sidewalk by the time Eric made it to the porch.

      He should’ve anticipated that, but he’d figured Dylan would be grateful for the food and the offer of a place to sleep, although Eric had fully expected him to leave before sunrise.

      Eric locked the door, then climbed the stairs. He could probably find something to wedge into the window jam, making it impossible to open, but he didn’t bother. If Dylan changed his mind, he would have a way in.

      When Eric reached the second floor, he didn’t see a light on under either guest-room door, so he didn’t know which room she’d taken. His bedroom door was open, however, and a lamp on. He stepped over the threshold. His quilt was folded at the foot of the bed, leaving only sheets for him, too. The house was warm even with the air conditioner on.

      And there was a mint on his pillow.

      Even though she was wary of having Dylan in the house, and had borne the brunt of his own anger for the window lock not being fixed, she’d turned his room into a retreat for him.

      He dug out shorts and a T-shirt from his suitcase and climbed into bed. The sheets felt crisp and smelled fresh, as did his room. He’d had housecleaners all his adult life, but that’s all they did—clean house.

      Marcy had already made him a home.